


On Obtaining A Sulky Bat

by Lady_Noremon



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Noremon/pseuds/Lady_Noremon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Which The Ambiguous Detective Is Poor, But Finds Richness With A Fuzzy Winged Ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Obtaining A Sulky Bat

**Author's Note:**

> April 19TH is the anniversary of Cassius buying Saunder. This is set back in 1889 (or whatever is two years behind 2012 whatever the canon year is now). Cassius had been in London a month, and was still staying with the old woman that had taken pity on them. [Originally posted [on LiveJournal](http://ladys-rambles.livejournal.com/4516.html) on April 19TH, 2012 @ 06:30PM]

Lorel Cassius hurried along, adjusting a sleeve cuff that hadn't been buttoned quite right from the morning's hasty dressing. She is tired, but she is often tired. The dreams rake the sleep between long, busy days so (and Church is not the best place to nap). Dreams of drowning, and the more familiar dreams of identifying Alfred's corpse. But in the least for today she isn't hungry. In the least The Soft-Hearted Widow saw to her having a full breakfast. Of course though the two of them have struck-up a small companionship based on loss, The Widow believes her a widower, and one that has been left to his own poor devices too often. Lorel can't really disagree all too much that she isn't underfed. The suit she wears is baggy even by the standards needed to hide her gender, and a cinched belt is about all that is keeping her trousers up. But in the least it hides that she has nothing...well that a gentleman might have, and the shambles of the outfit might help bring in a few more jobs. She takes a deep breath in, and shifts her shoulders at the uncomfortable chest brace. She is used to most of the disguise, but it still feels odd to be able to wear a suit everyday, and she has never had to be bound on such a daily bases before. Most would not take a slight red-haired widow very seriously, even after she had banged their head off a table. So this way they can either deal with a strong woman in trousers, or a boyish-looking gentleman. Someone who is prepared to do almost anything in order to have their _answers_ about their spouse's...untimely death. But in order to do most anything finances  & a reputation are greatly needed. Sources just don't offer-up information out of pity, or even fear.--What is to fear after all if there is no known history or connections behind the person making threats?

So to help her work she is in need of a messenger bat. Strictly for work she keeps telling herself, even as she feels the little flutters of excitement. She has never had a pet before, and it is something of the unknown to her. Lorel had been reading-up on bats ever since realising the need for one, and had learned that they really are very fascinating creatures.--To soon become caregiver to one is quite exciting and scary. Hurrying along she comes to the...man with the cages in the corner of The Bazaar. The squeaks, rustling, flapping and screeching causes her to make a face. The batmonger leads the young man about (secretly making the assumption that he is just another shabby Ladybones detective. Resigned to finding old ladies' yappy dogs, and to clumsily follow cheating husbands.), showing him each of the different kinds for sale. Lorel lets a small, soft smile escape to a squat cage of bay-coloured ones, and so the grinning man offers to let the-young-man-that-is-really-a-woman hold one. She cautiously reaches her hand into the mass of beasts, half-expecting to be bit'. After several moments of equally cautious bats tracing around the fingers,she feels it must be rather silly. Standing bent-over with her hand in a cage of little bats, she finally grasps one of the closer & braver bats gently and pulls it out. The seller takes a peek at them and prattles-off facts about its species, its gender, when its group had been born, and other facts that might add likeliness to a quicker sale. A roughly 9 month-old, male, little brown bat. And a 27 year-old, slight, red-haired woman.

Lorel stands there contemplating, unblinkingly at the creature.

He makes a little cheep, staring up at her with beady eyes.

After minutes of this, she finally asks for the price. It is more than she was expecting, and just about all she has managed to scrape to her name. If she asks for a lower price, he might offer a bat with less health, and some-sort of pride also prevents her from calling out her lack of fiances. So upon asking about his-the bat's, not the man's-health again, she delicately hands him over and digs out her purse with its crumpled wad of a singular Echo, and a few Pennies. It takes all of what she has, and some sympathy from the seller, but she manages to leave with a simple perching cage, a week of crickets, and a only somewhat Sulky Bat, who had huddled onto her suit vest--The man suggesting the young man keep his new charge out of cage until it grows used to him.

That night after The Widow had, had another talk about the rules of having a pet, and after both Lorel & her new companion had filled their bellies (almost equally as hungry it seemed), the inquiry agent lays on the borrowed bed, sitting the creature on her chest.

"My name is Lorel." she tells him, again feeling rather silly. "But in d---ably London I am L.S. Cassius." He seems bright with the cock of his head. "But I do not know what to name you; or even if I should...Do you already have a name?" The detective shakes her own head at herself. And the bat cheeps some-sort of reply. Lorel decides to think on a name later, and to sleep some of her tiredness away for now. Seemingly in agreement the nameless bat decides to sleep just where he is, instead of over in his cage.

Clients, wait staff, bandaged sorts, even constables don't much care to have someone badger them for suggestion of names. And less so after the person shoots-down the common names for bats. But still Lorel Cassius writes down each one, making a little list in her field notepad. A list that at the end of each day she reads-off to the bat, hoping for that in the least one of them will be found appealing. Eventually she starts just saying whatever names come to her. "I could name you 'Rupert' after Alfred's manservant? ...But he is more blonde than you... 'Bertram'?--That is that artist I have been somewhat involved with... 'Stevenson'? I am fond of his writings...I could call you 'John', 'Henry'...'Richard'..." She wrinkles her nose. "'Tom' or 'Alan'? Alan was quite loyal, in any case...'Allardyce'? What of 'Allardyce'?" The bat seems to wrinkle his nose too, so Cassius has another think. There are two names that keep swirling about, but that she has been avoiding; "I shall not name you 'William'--That is what Alfred...My husband...and me were going to name our son. 'William' if a boy, 'Sophie' if a girl. So I shall not call you by that." Her voice tightening and the bat moving closer to her hand. "...We did try, ...but never managed." And she lets out a large sigh, deciding to distract herself by stroking between the bat's ears. It is not a topic she often thinks on, but with each bed she takes to, the more she has to realise she is barren. Defective. And it leaves more hollowness inside, because for 4 years they had tried, and tried. But like many things, it will never be. Now all she has is duty & loneliness. Work, and now a small soft bat. Soon her & said bat are asleep, and though she had thought on painful things, her dreams don't wake her for a change.

It had been almost 2 weeks (and another purchase of crickets), and the bat still was without a name. So as the detective lays on her stomach with him in front of her she is growing disgruntled with herself. "I could just call you 'Bat'?" A little huff. "'Samuel' was my father's name?" But she doesn't much care to name her bat after a man she never met, and that she is often told she resembles. "'Alexander'?" And she smiles a small smile. This has been one of the few repeat suggestions, but still doesn't quite fit. "...'Anderson'?...'Zander'?..." And she tries to think of other variations on it. "...'Saunder'?" Her West Country accent giving it more of a 'z' than a 's'. And it is a rather pleasurable word to say. "Shall we call you 'Saunder'?" The little bat stares at his caregiver, seeming to be deep in thought. After enough time for Cassius to start debating a theft of some neighbours' tartlets, the little brown bat moves closer and cheeps. "'Saunder'?" Another cheep. "Saunder, then. Saunder." One of her rare grins as she stands to find her jacket. Pastry will definitely be stolen, but this time out of celebration instead of frustration.


End file.
